Monday, December 31, 2012

They fill me
with a perplexing mix of joy and dread. They look at me—at ME!—and I
can't escape their view. They see my need, but more, they
also see ME for who I REALLY am. Before them I am transparent,
utterly without concealment, and known in far greater depth than I
even know myself. I remember:

No creature is
hidden from His sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of
him to whom we must give account (Hebrews 4:13).

What's with the eyes?

The Apostle John (in Revelation 1:14)
describes Jesus in His eternal glory as having “eyes like a flame
of fire.” That's the phrase I remember best from this section of
Scripture. Maybe it's because I memorized two different “Eye of the
Lord” Bible verses when I was just a lad; they have rung in my head
ever since:

For the eyes of
the Lord run to and fro throughout the earth, to give strong support
to those whose heart is blameless before him (II Chronicles 16:9).

The eyes of the
Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good
(Proverbs 15:3).

I know the Lord is present everywhere.
But I forget that He WANTS to be there, and that He actively exists
in every place with His eyes actively searching out hearts and minds
and motives and desires. He actively knows every detail from every
possible perspective.

And His eyes are aflame. Holiness.
Purity. Perfection. And burning zeal for His glory. I'm not only
uncovered in His sight, I am undone. All my impurities stand out in
stark contrast to His holiness.

I am grateful for the way Jesus
revealed His character to us when He lived here—when He was emptied
of His eternal glory and “found in the likeness of men.” His eyes
must have been something to see. Look at the way the Apostles saw
them:

He saw a large
crowd and felt compassion for them (Matthew 14:14).

When the Lord saw
her, he felt compassion for her (Luke 7:13).

Seeing the people,
he felt compassion for them (Matthew 9:36).

Many times the writers of the New
Testament join the Lord's compassion to His perception. From His
sight flows mercy.

When I couple these two realities
together—the holy fire of His perfect vision with His character of
mercy and compassion—I breathe a genuine sigh of relief. He sees
me; He knows me; He still loves me and cares for my needs.

But I find that my knowledge of His
perfect perception changes ME! The fire purifies me. I act differently when I know He's
watching.

I wonder how Peter felt when, after he
denied the Lord three times, “the Lord turned and looked at" him (Luke 22:61). Apparently the denial took place close to where Jesus
was being illegally tried. And the Lord knew Peter would fail, and
looked directly at him when the sin was complete. “And Peter went out and wept bitterly.”

Lord Jesus, as I enter a new year,
please remind me often of Your presence—Your holy, fiery, blazing
perfection. And may I humbly fall at Your perfect, holy feet to
praise You for Your compassion and mercy! Let me see you seeing me before I am brought to tears and bitter weeping.

Friday, December 28, 2012

After seeing Les Miserables on Wednesday, my wife and I had a somber discussion about various people who have been a part of our lives. Some have acted the role of the Bishop who "bought" Jean Valjean's soul for God. They have granted to us extraordinary grace and kindness. God has used them to fill our hearts with encouragement and hope.

Others have played the role of Javert. They make their opinions clear: that people do not change, that fallenness calls for judgment and penance, that there is no good place in society for felons and thieves. To them, the past is inescapable.

I see the same conflict of values in the story of the prodigal son. The Father shows illogical and extravagant grace; the older brother is a Javert--unforgiving, demanding, disdaining both the prodigal for his sin and the Father for His love.

A while back I penned a set of lyrics from the perspective of the forgiven prodigal. It's called, "Song for the Older Brother," a plea for modern Javerts to embrace grace like the Father.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

On Wednesday, we saw the Hobbit in the
morning and Les Mis in the evening. It was an epic movie binge on our
part, and a satisfying escape at that! But it got me thinking.
(Doesn't everything?) Our culture loves loves loves movies of a
particular kind, so much so we pay to see sequels and prequels and
midquels again and again. They satisfy a certain set of hunger pangs
percolating in the heart of every human, pangs that reflect truths
that everyone knows deep within.

The Bible tells us that every human is
created with a conscience and thus knows right from wrong. It also
teaches that we are members of a fallen race corrupted by sin. We
express that fallenness by suppressing truth.

So on the one hand we clearly sense
right and wrong, good and evil, moral and immoral. The conscience is
alive and well in the human heart. But we push those senses aside
when they conflict with self interest and as a result we make wrong
choices, evil decisions, immoral actions—not all the time, but
enough to prove our fallen condition, for sure!

So back to the movies. Our love of
Tolkien-esque stories reveals the presence and influence of the
conscience at work in the heart. As we watch, we are moved by—and
celebrate—truths like these:

Life is epic. Epic battle. Epic
struggle. Epic beginning. Epic end. Billions of small, daily,
mundane transactions do not negate what we know to be true: the
universe is speeding toward an epic goal and every little detail
plays a part in the total picture. This is a uniquely western world
view and flows from good Biblical theology. You won't find “telic”
thought in eastern culture, at least not like it permeates western
culture, especially America. We like things to begin, climax, and
end. It's why we love football and not cricket.

Evil is real, vicious,
unrelenting, and must be defeated. It will not go away on its own.
Some forms need to be met with vigilant battle followed by genuine
grace. Other forms need to be dispatched, violently, and the sooner
the better. Dispatching may mean moral decision making, or it may
mean picking up a sword and decapitating an orc. Or a goblin.

Evil is external and internal. And
like the sage said, “The world outside don't pose no threat like
the darkness in our hearts” (Charlie Peacock). Both manifestations
of evil must be fought, and fought valiantly.

Valiant fighting is good if the
cause is good, and there are good and noble causes worth agonizing
over.

Bravery is an epic character
trait, but it won't be revealed without a costly, painful, and
unrelenting struggle.

We watch the movie and cheer the good
guys and reveal through our natural reactions that we are under the
influence of God's gift to every man and woman: a conscience.

But then we leave the theater and
suppress that same, sane moral sense in the real world. We have a
reckless disregard for identifying real evils of this age. Shoot, we
want to legalize some of them! And admit to the darkness in our own
hearts? What? In THIS day of blameshifting? It's the fault of my
parents/teachers/therapists/guns/medications/fillintheblank—anything
but standing up to the fact that I, alone, am evil and capable of
great, harmful, hateful behavior. I need restrained in the least,
redeemed and regenerated to be sure, and now, lest I sink my ship and
drag into the abyss those around me I love.

So for me, watching the Hobbit is not just an experience, it's a reminder of our condition, our need for a Savior, and our longing to be a part of the epic plan we sense MUST be a part of this created world.

And this is, by the way, my favorite way to
watch a movie that appeals to the stirrings of my own heart—I
examine why it appeals to me, good or bad, and how it proves I am
either human, or more, a child of the King.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

I read this about Stephen Charnok, a minister who lived in the 1600s and is famous for his work, "The Existence and Attributes of God" --

He was not content, like many, with the mere reputation of being a recluse; on the contrary, he was set on bringing forth the fruits of a hard student. There was always one day in the week in which he made it appear that the others were not misspent. His Sabbath ministrations were not the loose vapid effusions of a few hours' careless preparation, but were rather the substantial, well-arranged, well-compacted products of much intense thought and deep cogitation. "Had he been less in his study," says his editors quaintly, "he would have been less liked in the pulpit."

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Over four years ago I stepped down from
serving as the pastor of a church. I had been a true “preacher”
of the Word. I studied and prepared and spoke with passion and led
God's people from the pulpit as a teacher/shepherd. There was not an
opportunity to preach that I turned down. And when I resigned, I
entered into a time of silence—a time to reflect on my life as a
minister, discern my errors, admit my flaws, speak honestly about the
condition of my heart, and repent of my own sins.

In this time of introspection, I
discovered that much of my prior ministry was colored by a subtle
kind of arrogance that flowed from self-confidence and the desire to
be proven right. I pray now that my labors were not all rendered
useless by this dominant flaw. I shudder to think of the damage that
my pride may have caused. The sins that were for me a personal
struggle proved the presence and depth of pride in my heart. Once I
brought them into the light, I was able to see how pride touched
every dimension of my existence. I am grateful for the assurance of
forgiveness I have in Jesus.

But I have also learned something else
during this time of silence. I am a preacher. That part of me has not
died. Remaining silent has been one of the most difficult tasks to
manage, especially as of late. Everything I learn and read and see
cries out be brought into the light of God's Word under the skills of
godly preacher—explaining, expositing, exhorting, encouraging,
exalting—I have trouble holding it in.

I have deep regard for the words of
Jeremiah the prophet:

For the word of
the Lord has become for me a reproach and derision all day long. If I
say, “I will not mention him, or speak anymore in his name,”
there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones,
and I am weary of holding it in, and I cannot. (Jer. 20:8b-9, ESV)

I feel this daily. I am blessed in that
I am not persecuted as Jeremiah was. I am not under reproach and
derision for being a Christian—not to my face, anyway. But I relate
to the trouble Jeremiah had with self-imposed silence.

And I have come to the place where I
believe the silence can be ended. I am grateful for the recent
opportunities I have been given to preach. They have given release
for my greatest passion. But I need more opportunity. There's too
much getting bottled up on my inside and I'm ready to let it out.

Hence this blog.

I re-ignite it today as a place where I
can release “preacher-steam.” I have no hopes or expectations of
building a large reader-base. I certainly don't feel I deserve to be
heard. But I must speak, and this forum provides the best present
opportunity.

May Christ Jesus be honored here at
this site by writer and readers alike!

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About Me

My greatest joy is walking with Jesus. That's also my greatest challenge! I'm weary of this world, but glad to have purpose in it. Right now, we see "through a glass darkly" and I can't wait to be face to face...